The 37th Hunger Games - A Riddle for a Life
by Amy's Bones
Summary: Every puzzle has a solution. The solution, however, is not always the easiest one – nor the most logical. When President Descole is found dead in the Reinhold Mansion, the Capitol is on the brink of chaos. Morado Altava, newly appointed Head-Gamemaker, has one job: distract Capitolites from the truth, because sometimes, reality is stranger than fiction. (SYOT OPEN)
1. Prologue - Part I

**Prologue**

* * *

" _This reminds me of a puzzle."_

* * *

 **Nettle Reinhold – Private Detective**

 **The Capitol**

* * *

"They executed him."

Nettle tried not to wince when his wife's tea cup slipped from her fingers. The delicate porcelain shattered upon impact, the sound echoing around the room like a gun shot. Her hands flew to her mouth, unable to hide her surprise.

He leaned forward slowly, his eyes conveying all the emotions he wasn't allowed to show. "They _executed_ him, Violet."

She reached out to take his hand in hers, but Nettle was already walking towards the door, his own tea long forgotten on his desk. He glared at the Avox standing in the corner, his hands trembling at his sides. "Out. _Now_."

The Avox hurried past him, not once looking up as she closed the door behind her. Nettle pressed his forehead against the wood, waiting for the girl to be out of earshot. He nearly jumped when he felt Violet's arms around him. "What should we–"

"You must leave," Nettle said, his heart breaking at the very thought of losing her, "take Mordred and leave the Capitol."

Violet grabbed his shoulders and forced him to face her. "Not happening, Nettle."

"It's no longer safe here, you _must_ bring our son to safety," He pressed, his hands on either side of her face.

She shook her head. "And where would we go? To the Districts? Beyond? Don't be ridiculous, Nettle."

"If you stay here–"

"They might not even trace it back to us," Violet reasoned, her eyes watering at the sight of her husband so distraught. "If we run now they'll _know_."

Nettle sighed forcefully through his nose, his frown deepening. "We can't risk the life of our son like this–"

"You should have thought about that _before_ allowing Deimos to completely disrupt our lives," Violet argued, her words harsh but her tone gentle, "we knew this was a possibility."

"They killed him," he said, his voice breaking, "they _killed_ him."

Violet raised her hand to his face, softly caressing his cheek. "He was a Head Gamemaker, Nettle, it's happened before."

Nettle closed his eyes. He _knew_ that. Better than anyone, too. While the Head Gamemaker before Deimos had retired, the man before that – Gaius Dove – had died in a terrible hovercraft accident. A truly terrible tragedy, that accident. Thirteen people dead. Thirteen _important_ people dead. The curious thing was, Gaius Dove had never even _been_ on that hovercraft when it mysteriously crashed.

Gaius Dove had been _murdered_ in a dark alley, near a grocery store.

A twenty-five-year-old Nettle Reinhold had witnessed the whole thing.

The forty-five-year-old Nettle Reinhold was going to pay the price.

His time was up.

"Deimos shouldn't have accepted the job," Nettle said, closing his eyes, "he should have stuck to the plan and –"

"It was a perfect opportunity to get closer to Descole and he took it. You can't be mad at him for that."

Nettle scoffed. "He's dead, Violet. There's no one _left_ to be mad at."

"You would have done the same," she said, frowning, "you would have jumped at the chance."

"You have to resign," He told his wife, his expression tense, "you have to _leave_."

Violet shook her head. "You know I can't just _leave_. I have work to do. I have responsibilities. I –"

"They just _murdered_ the Head Gamemaker, what tells me you're not next on the list."

"I work as a mutt designer, honey," she said, "I'm not even sure my boss knows my name."

Nettle turned his head to look at her. "President Descole knows everything about everyone, don't think he doesn't know you."

There was a knock on the door, but they both ignored it. "Nettle, we can't just give up."

"I'm not giving up," he said, sending her a pointed look, "but _you_ must. For our son."

"Nettle Pavel Reinhold, it wasn't _your_ father that got murdered twenty years ago, was it?"

Someone knocked on the door once more, but the Reinholds weren't done with their conversation. Nettle knew that she had a very valid point, but it didn't change the fact that they couldn't drag their seventeen-year-old son into the whole affair. Someone had to step back. "Mordred needs to be brought to safety."

"And so do you," Violet exclaimed, throwing her hands around her husband's neck, "so do _we_."

He held her close, his chin resting on her dark hair. "We're never going to agree, are we?"

"Not if your intention is to sacrifice yourself for us," she said, pinching the skin on his neck, making him wince.

"I don't _want_ to die," he muttered, smiling softly.

"Great, finally something we agree on," Violet whispered, hiding her face in his shirt.

When the door opened, neither noticed the figure standing in the archway. It was only after the person coughed that they acknowledge their presence. "Excuse me, Lady Reinhold?"

Violet sighed and reluctantly let go of her husband. "We're busy, Poppy."

The green-haired assistant gulped and looked behind her, clearly uneasy. "I'm terribly sorry, my lady, but there is someone downstairs that wants to see you."

"Who?"

Poppy hesitated. "I – I'm not allowed to say, miss."

Nettle felt his blood run cold. Something was wrong. He shared a worried look with his wife, before bringing his attention back to the assistant. "Mordred. Where's Mordred?"

"I'm not allowed–"

He took a menacing step forward, all trace of worry replaced with pure anger. Angry at her, angry at Deimos, angry at himself. " _Where_. _Is_. _My_. _Son_?"

Poppy gulped. "He's downstairs, sir."

"We have to –"

The gun shot was so loud Nettle would hear it for the rest of his life.

 _The rest of his life._

* * *

 **Morado Altava – Head Gamemaker of the 37** **th** **Hunger Games**

 **The Capitol**

"The President is dead."

Morado stared at the newspaper on his desk, leisurely sipping on his sugared coffee. Three days had gone by since his predecessor Deimos Allen's execution. Three days had gone by since President Descole's body was found in the Reinhold residence. Three days had gone by since the job of Head Gamemaker had been thrust upon him.

The situation could not have been worse.

The President was gone – but so was his killer. No murder weapon. No witnesses. No cameras. No proof. Just one big hole in Descole's head.

Nothing more. Nothing less. The Reinholds had completely vanished.

"Mister Altava?"

Morado didn't look up from his desk. "That's me."

"Thank god," said the voice, getting closer, "and here I thought I'd entered the wrong office."

"Rest assured, then," Morado said, reading the headline once more, "What can I do for you?"

The man chuckled. "You could start by looking at me, Mister Altava."

Morado bit back a sigh – and was very glad he did – because the moment their eyes met, he realized his mistake. Standing in front of him was an old man. White hair, white beard and white suit. Vice-President Delmona.

No – President Delmona.

The situation could, in fact, get worse.

Morado nearly chocked on his coffee. "Mist – Mister President, I'm terribly sorry about this I–"

"Now, now, Mister Altava, no need for an apology," Delmona said, smiling gently.

"Please sit, sir," Morado said, offering the elderly man a seat.

Delmona smiled, but shook his head. "Ah, thank you my boy, but it won't be necessary. This will be a very brief visit. "

Morado nodded, wondering if he'd already done something wrong. "Of course, sir."

"I'm here because we're in the same boat, you and I. Both our predecessors died, one way or another. On the same day, no less. We're both new to our jobs and we both want to do it well, don't we?"

"Indeed," Morado answered, not sure where the conversation was going.

Delmona continued. "That's why I'm asking you to – how should put it – to calm things down for a bit."

"Sir?"

"The Hunger Games, Mister Altava," Delmona explained, raising an eyebrow.

The Gamemaker was lost. "I don't know what you mean, sir."

"I mean that the Capitol has seen enough violence, Mister Altava, and that it needs a break."

What did he mean? Was he asking him to postpone the Hunger Games? Was he asking to stop the Games altogether? The confusion on his face made the President smile. Not a menacing smile, not like President Descole. The old man was softer.

Too soft.

"You want me to stop the Games?" Morado said, hesitating on every single word.

Delmona laughed. "Oh goodness no, not at all. They exist for a reason, don't they? We can't have the District think the Capitol is getting weak, can we?"

Morado was swimming in the pools of confusion. "Mister President I –"

"Change the rules, Mister Altava, change the rules of nature."

He gulped. "The rules of _nature_?"

"I'm getting quite tired of ' _may the strongest survive_ ', you see? A change is in order, don't you think?"

"May the _weakest_ survive?"

Delmona chuckled darkly. "May the _smartest_ survive."

* * *

 **Author's note:** I couldn't resist. I just had to try this thing, so here's my very first SYOT. The tribute form is on my profile, so please, send me some tributes! :) (However, I only accept tributes that are DM'ed to me, I'm sorry Anons)

Thanks so much for reading!


	2. Prologue - Part II

**Prologue – Part II**

* * *

" _I will get my revenge."_

* * *

 **Reyna Chelmey – Victor of the 16** **th** **Hunger Games**

 **District Two**

* * *

Reyna watched as another one of her students miserably failed her test.

The boy – Erwin _something_ – had never been a very good fighter. He'd never managed to master the art of the sword, despite having trained with one for ten years. He'd never managed to be any good at close combat either. His instructors had certified her that he was the perfect candidate – that he had a lot of _potential_.

"Erwin, if you want to redecorate the floor with your intestines, keep holding the sword like that," Reyna said, rubbing her temples.

The sixteen-year-old kid winced, but nodded, knowing better than to talk back to her. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his weapon and resumed slashing at the dummy in front of him. It took Reyna a lot of will-power not to _groan_.

"This kid is hopeless," she muttered, shaking her head, "a lot of potential my _ass_."

She could hear Pollux, a fellow District two Victor, snicker from the Archery station. His face changed when his own student missed three targets in a row. Reyna smirked, daring him to mock her again. The young man raised his hands in defeat and walked over to where she was standing.

"They're all a bit _agitated_ , aren't they?" Pollux said, crossing his arms over his chest.

She shrugged. "I don't see why."

"The President was just murdered," he reminded her, frowning.

"Do I care?"

He sighed, grimacing. "You can't expect them to not be affected by the news. The government is falling apart and there's this ridiculous rumour that they're going to stop the Games. They're a tad worried is all. Cut them some slack."

"It seems to me that you're more worried that they are," Reyna said, raising an eyebrow.

Pollux scoffed. "And _you_ aren't?"

"Do I look like I give a damn about this whole thing?"

"Well, _no_ but –"

"That's probably because I _don't_ ," Reyna said, rolling her eyes at Erwin's pathetic attempt at a decapitation.

The young Victor stared at her, not entirely sure how to respond. He'd known her for quite a while, even before he'd won his own Games, but she still confused him on a daily basis. Some days, Reyna seemed like this patriotic war-hero, encouraging her students to believe in the Capitol and everything it stood for, but on others, he wondered if she was secretly a rebel out to kill them all.

"You're not even a little bit shocked?" Pollux asked, his frown deepening.

Reyna snorted. "Descole had it coming."

His eyes widened dramatically. "Reyna you can't just say things like –"

"What's he gonna do? He's _dead_ , Pollux," she said, rolling her eyes.

"And his killer is still on the loose," he stated, his voice an octave higher than usual.

She turned to look at him, smirking. "Pollux Barton, are you telling me that you're _afraid_?"

He blushed. "Don't be ridiculous, Chelmey, it's just that –"

"How old are you?"

Pollux blinked. "Twenty-two, why?"

"Did you ever hear of the _'HC Affair'_?"

He thought about it for a moment, but ended up shrugging. "Doesn't ring a bell."

"Twenty years ago, a hovercraft crashed near the frontier between the Capitol and District One. Thirteen people died, if I remember correctly. Among them: Gaius Dove and the Vice-President."

Pollux cocked his head to the side. "Gaius Dove, the Gamemaker?"

" _Huge_ drama. The Games had barely started, and the government had just discovered the existence of a rebel camp in District Three. I still remember how everyone was panicking. _Pathetic_ , really."

"I'm not _panicking_ ," Pollux muttered, looking at his feet.

Reyna sighed and put her hand on his shoulder, making his head snap up in surprise. "You're letting the situation get to you, kid. That's not how you won your Games, was it?"

"I'm not –"

"And you're freaking your students out," she said, pointing at the Archery station to their left.

In fact, except one or two trainees, most of them were huddled together, talking in hushed whispers about whatever was on their minds. Pollux frowned at them, but Reyna shook her head. "Don't, let them be, it's getting late anyway."

She turned to Erwin, who was still having difficulties with his dummy. "Did you hear that, Erwin? Go home, you're done for the day."

Reyna completely ignored him when he said, "I'm Edwin, actually."

"What about Smith? He likes to stay after closing hours," Pollux asked, nodding towards the only trainee still fighting in the room.

"Let him, heaven knows he's the only capable fighter here," Reyna said, sighing.

"I feel like I should take offense to that."

"Cry me a river, Barton."

* * *

 **Author's Note** : Here's the first Victor chapter. There should be two more after this one. There are still a lot of free spots, so don't hesitate and send a couple tributes my way!

Thanks for reading!


	3. Prologue - Part III

**Prologue – Part III**

* * *

" _A true gentleman…"_

* * *

 **Antonin Grosky – Victor of the 28** **th** **Hunger Games**

 **District Seven**

* * *

"I don't trust him."

Antonin chuckled, his hands resting on the back of his head. His eyes were glinting mischievously, the situation so ironic he had to physically restrain himself from laughing. Cocking his head to the side, he raised an eyebrow at the man sitting across from him. "And you're coming to me _because_?"

Mayor Barnham gulped, uneasy. "We know that –"

" _We_? I don't see anyone else in here," Antonin said, "do _you_?"

The elderly man coughed. "I mean _I_ know that –"

"Better. It's so easy to misinterpret things when –"

"Mister Grosky, could we _please_ try to get along for a moment. I have very important matters to return to and very little time."

Antonin leaned forward, suddenly in Mayor Barnham's personal space. He was still smiling. "I find it very hard to believe that you need _my_ help, sir."

"We – _I_ need advice," he said, his jaw tight.

The Victor smirked. "Don't you all?"

Mayor Barnham sighed. "We're not ready. Our plan isn't ready. Our spy isn't ready. We're just not _ready_ for this."

"And?"

"And you are a _rebel_ ," the old man said, whispering the last word as though it were a bad word.

Antonin nodded. "Indeed I am."

"You have resources. You have contacts. We – I was wondering if you would help us."

" _Us_ , or _you_?"

The Mayor sighed through his nose. "Me. I was wondering if you would help _me_."

"Why, of course I'll help you Barnaby, my friend," Antonin exclaimed, patting the man on the shoulder. "What _exactly_ do you need?"

"I need a spy. Someone that can get into the Capitol and give me inside information," Barnham said, unable to resist looking over his shoulder. He knew that what he was doing was _extremely_ dangerous, especially after what had happened in the last few days. On the other hand, the more hectic things were over there, the easier it would be to slip through the cracks.

Antonin considered him for a moment, wondering what would push such a lawful man to turn to a rebel – to _turn into_ a rebel. Things were getting _very_ interesting.

"Impossible," The Victor said, shrugging apologetically, "I'm sorry, Barnaby."

" _What_?" He gasped, surprised.

Antonin pinched his nose. " _Think_ , Mister Mayor. The President was just murdered. Do you honestly believe that they haven't taken their security up a couple notches?"

"The Capitol is falling apart" Barnaby argued, scowling. "It's all over the news!"

"They're just drama queens, sir, I thought that much was obvious."

"I'm sorry?"

Antonin smirked. "No need to apologize, we're all dim-witted sometimes."

Mayor Barham wasn't amused. "Mister Grosky, I have to warn you –"

"Calm your horses, Barnaby, you're worrying for nothing. The Capitol isn't falling apart, but the Capitolites are _losing their minds._ There's a difference."

"There is? Please, _enlighten_ me, Mister Grosky."

"The government is _fine_. They have procedures for these kinds of situations. They have back-up plans to their back-up plans. Now that Descole is dead, Delmona is now probably the new President, and I'm not sure if we should be scared or thankful."

The Mayor sighed. "I _know_ that. The situation is ideal, however. The Capitolites might let things slip."

"The Capitolites don't know _anything_. If you want valuable information, you need to get into the government, and right now? That's not happening. They're not stupid enough to let any new people in. Like I said, the security is going to be a bitch to bypass."

"So we do _nothing_?!"

Antonin smirked. There it was. "Well, I do have an idea."

"Let's hear it, then."

Hook. Line. Sinker.

"Getting close to the government is out of the question but there might be a way to take advantage of the situation," he said, nodding as he spoke, "Tell me, sir, what happens in a couple months?"

It took him way too long to respond, but Antonin wasn't anything if not patient. "The Hunger Games?"

The Victor nodded. "Precisely."

"You want to send a spy during the Hunger Games? That's _ridiculous_. The security is even –"

"I want to send a spy _in_ the Hunger Games."

Barnaby blinked. "What?"

"I have a perfect candidate. A perfect spy. He's young, smart _and_ angry. He was also trained by yours truly. However, he just so happens to be stuck in prison, Mister Mayor."

It didn't take him more than a second to know whom he was talking about. With wide eyes, he said, "You want to send a _criminal_ to the Capitol?"

"I prefer the term _rebel_ , if you don't mind."

Mayor Barnham considered the idea for a moment. "He won't ever accept this. We haven't been able to make him –"

He stopped himself midsentence, suddenly very aware whom he was talking to. Antonin smiled at that. He really wasn't the smartest of his people, was he? Coming to a rebel for help was already quite stupid of him, but letting his guard down like that? How _cute_. "He won't like it, that's for sure."

"What do you suggest we do, then? Can you convince him?"

"To go fight to the death to bring back information to _you_? _Nobody_ could convince him."

Barnaby pinched his nose. "Then why are you wasting my time?!"

"Rig it," Antonin said, shrugging.

A beat. " _What_?"

"Since we can't make him volunteer, I guess we'll have to make sure it's _his_ name that gets picked."

"That's – that's –"

"If you say illegal–"

Mayor Barnham frowned. "If we get caught –"

"If _you_ get caught, Barnaby. If _you_ get caught."

"Tell me this, Mister Grosky. If your protegee is so perfect for this job, _why did he ever get caught in the first place_?"

Antonin laughed. Grinning, he stood from his chair, urging the man in front of him to do the same. He reached out, ready to shake hands with the Mayor.

"You have so much to learn, Barnaby."

 _So much._

* * *

 **Author's note:** And here is the second Victor chapter. One more to go. Thank you so much to the people who have already submitted tributes! There is plenty of spots left, however! Don't hesitate and send a couple my way!

Thank you so much for reading!


	4. Prologue - Part IV

**Prologue – Part IV**

* * *

" _I'm scared, Professor."_

* * *

 **Sammy Hastings – Victor of the 23** **rd** **Hunger Games**

 **District Twelve**

* * *

Sammy couldn't believe his ears.

His hands trembled in his lap, his finger nails drawing crescent moons in his skin. He was so focused on the screen in front of him that he didn't notice when someone knocked on his front door. The President couldn't be dead. This had to be some sort of trick – perhaps to see if the Districts would take advantage of the situation. His mind immediately thought of his friend Antonin, from District Seven, who would probably cause them all a whole lot of trouble.

Sammy really didn't want any trouble.

"Is anybody home?"

The thirty-two-year-old Victor jumped, only then noticing the blood beneath his nails. Gulping, he stood from his couch and made his way towards the door. He stared at the doorknob for a second, suddenly feeling unsafe in his own home. It had taken him a good five years to get over his Games – and he hadn't killed a _single_ person.

Gritting his teeth, he opened the door, his heart thundering in his chest. His eyebrows shut up to his hairline when he saw the person that was standing there. He had not expected to see his son's kindergarten teacher on his front porch. "Is everything alright, Enoch?"

"Uh, hello Mister Hastings, it's nice to see you," Enoch Fey said, rubbing the back of his head nervously.

"Call me Sammy, please," he said, letting his eyes check his surroundings really quick, "is there a problem? Is Will alright?"

Enoch's eyes widened, and he raised both his hands in alarm. "Oh yes, Will is perfectly fine, I assure you."

Sammy felt a weight lift off his chest, but kept frowning. If Enoch wasn't there because of his son, why would he be there? Especially in the middle of the day? "Are _you_ alright, then?"

Enoch looked down at his feet. He seemed almost _shy_. "Actually, I came to check on _you_."

Sammy blushed, just blinking for a short moment. He had definitely _not_ expected that. That's when he realized that he was being really impolite and gestured for him to come in. The red-head teacher smile gratefully and stepped inside, his eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets when he saw how big his house was. "Quite a big house for two people."

"I tried to offer it to the orphanage," Sammy muttered, suddenly very embarrassed, "but the Mayor wouldn't let me."

Enoch felt the corner of his lips lift into a smile. "Of _course_ you would."

Sammy felt his blush spread to his neck. Instead of answering, he gestured towards the sofa where he'd been sitting before. The teacher sat down slowly, before crossing his legs and wrapping his arms around one knee. His face changed when his attention went to the screen in front of them. Sammy cleared his throat and shut down the device.

"Can I bring you anything? Tea or water or something else? I think I have vodka somewhere," the Victor said, pointing towards his kitchen.

Enoch shook his head, smiling. "No thank you."

"Alright," Sammy said, looking away awkwardly.

He didn't know why Enoch would ever come by his house to check on him, considering that they weren't really friends. They occasionally spoke when Sammy went downtown to pick up his son from kindergarten, but nothing more than that. He was confused, to say the least. "Why did you –"

"William," Enoch started, his expression worried, "William said something a bit concerning this morning."

Sammy cocked his head to the side. Will could barely speak, much less say _concerning_ things. "What did he say?"

Enoch scratched his head, biting at his lower lip. "Well… it wasn't a very clear sentence."

"But?"

"He said something along the lines of _'Daddy sad_ '," he admitted, looking at his face to see his reaction.

Sammy's heart dropped. After hearing of President Descole's death, a lot of bad memories of his Games at come back to him, making him fall down a dark spiral of self-loathing and pain. He'd tried to keep it from his son, but had apparently not been careful enough.

He tried his best to keep his voice steady. "It's nothing, Enoch, everything's fine."

"I'd ask if you're sure, but the way your hands shake tell me what I want to know," Enoch said, his tone so gentle the Victor barely heard it.

Sammy bit at his upper lip, annoyed with his inability to stay calm. "It's just – with everything going on right now, I felt a bit –"

"You don' t have to explain, Sammy," Enoch said quickly, holding up his hands, "I'm just here to see if you _want_ help."

He wasn't sure how the kindergarten teacher could help him, but the fact that he was trying made his heart grow warmer. There were a lot of people in District Twelve, but he didn't know one person that was kinder than Enoch Fey. In fact, he doubted that anyone in the whole of Panem would out-nice him.

Sammy hesitated, not sure how to formulate his thoughts into words. "I – I do. Want help."

"Then I'm right here for you."

 _Then I'm right here for you._

* * *

 **Author's note:** Hello everyone! I'm kinda on a roll, so I'm just going to keep writing. These three 'Victor' chapters are naturally important to the story, so read carefully eheheh. Thanks so much to the people who submitted tributes, you make my day! But there are still a lot of spots free, so please, keep them coming!

Thanks for reading!


	5. Prelude

**Prelude**

* * *

" _You see, true friends share a special connection."_

* * *

 **Violet Reinhold – Gamemaker – Fugitive**

 **District Seven**

* * *

She had to protect her son.

Mordred hadn't spoken a word since that fateful day. Not to her. Not to anyone. He was scared – _he was scarred_ – and it was all her fault. She should have listened to Nettle when she'd had the chance. She should have taken Mordred away from the Capitol earlier. Now it was too late.

What was done was done.

"Thank you for taking us in," Violet said, nodding towards the man in the corner of the room.

Antonin Grosky smiled, but she knew better than to believe he'd helped them out of the goodness of his heart. He was the most ruthless Victor alive for a _reason_. He wanted something from her. She knew he did. But she wasn't going to ask.

"What sort of monster would I be if I didn't help a mother and her son?" Antonin asked, leaning against the wall.

Violet took a deep breath, trying not to show her annoyance. She needed to stay on his good side if she wanted to keep her son safe. She just had to internalize all her feelings. Easy – or not. She softly caressed her son's cheek, saddened by how _hollow_ his eyes seemed. She could feel Antonin's eyes staring at her, but she hoped that ignoring him would make him go away.

Too could to be true, really.

"Where's your husband, Lady Reinhold?" Antonin wondered, tilting his head to the side.

She willed herself to keep her tone as neutral as humanely possible. "I don't know."

"Is he dead?"

She closed her eyes, feeling rage build up inside of her. She had to take deep breaths in order to calm herself. "I don't know."

He hummed. "He isn't."

Violet turned to look at him. "How would you know?"

Antonin shrugged, raising an eyebrow. "I _know_ because if he were dead, you would know. And as you're not a crying mess right now, Nettle Reinhold is safe and sound. Somewhere."

"I just told you–"

"You're a rotten liar, Lady Reinhold," he stated, smiling, "but I understand. Gotta protect one's family, eh?"

For a second, she wondered if he had any family. She'd watched his Games, a couple years back. She'd even participated in the creation of the mutt that killed his District partner. Quite a gruesome year, if you asked her. A lot of blood. A lot of torture. It hadn't been pretty.

He'd looked so _innocent_.

How wrong she'd been. How wrong they'd _all_ been.

"Do you know," Violet started, her stare as hard as steel, "where he is?"

"Your husband? No. Sadly, no. However, I did find something quite interesting, Lady Reinhold."

She arched an eyebrow. "And what would that be?"

"Oh, just the body of a young green-haired assistant of yours. Nothing too fancy," Antonin said, his dark irises making her feel uneasy, "Poppy Barde, was it?"

Violet felt sick. Really, _really_ sick. She silently thanked the gods she hadn't eaten anything on their way to District Seven, or she would surely have thrown it all up over his ugly carpet. She could still picture the scared eyes of her assistant after seeing the body of President Descole lying on the ground, in a puddle of his own blood. It had all been so – _so_ _horrible._

"Do you know how she died?" He asked, passing a hand through his curly brown hair.

Violet shook her head.

He laughed.

"A bullet," Antonin explained, disturbingly amused, "right between the eyes."

She shuddered.

He was still laughing.

"At least it was quick, don't you think?"

Yes, she wanted to say. He wasn't wrong. Poppy hadn't suffered. She'd died, but she hadn't suffered. Dying with no pain was better than to die painfully, right?

 _Right_?

"Bold move, if you ask me," he commented, "but logical, all things considered."

Violet took a deep breath, frowning. " _Bold move_?"

"Killing your assistant and leaving her body in a ditch. Not very classy, but I understand why you did it," Antonin said, looking her straight in the eyes, daring her to look away.

"Are you insinuating that –"

He scoffed, cutting her off. "Are _you_ telling me that you didn't kill the only person who witnessed the whole thing?"

She blinked.

He smirked. "From one monster to another, don't try to lie to someone who thinks just like _you_."

Violet shook her head. She wasn't a monster. She hadn't killed Poppy because of the sheer fun of it. She'd killed Poppy so that she wouldn't rat her out. She couldn't have let her go. She might have said something. And if she had, Mordred and her would have – would have – _maybe_ –

Why would protecting her child be considered _monstrous_?

"I'm not a monster," Violet said, voice firm and strong. She wasn't, and she wouldn't play his silly little mind games.

Antonin pushed away from the wall and walked towards them. He stopped right in front of Mordred, way too close for her liking. He squatted next to him and cocked his head to the side. After a couple tense seconds, he looked at Violet, his eyes stormy.

"You're not, Violet Reinhold," He said.

He looked back at the seventeen-year-old boy who was hiding his head between his knees.

" _But he most certainly is_."

* * *

 **Author's note** : And here's the last pre-Reapings chapter. The next one will be one of the Reapings, but I'm not sure which one it'll be yet. Either I do it the traditional way and do the Districts one after the other, or I do it randomly. I guess we'll see, won't we? Keep the tributes coming!

Thank you so much for reading!


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